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Category Archives: Couplehood

Mother’s Day is bouquets of fresh flowers, the pitter-patter of little feet running through the house while Mama half-dozes, giggling outside the bedroom door, handmade cards, a mocha coffee delivered bedside, and a bagel brunch on the back deck with thoughtful gifts and sweet words. It’s lovely and divine.

But this year, I discovered the night before could also dish up its own spot-on, hilarious tribute to motherhood:

We were sitting around the table picking at the last bits of Chinese takeout, when my husband and I heard a small but persistent voice from the bathroom.

“I’m duh-uhn!”

“Just a sec, honey…” I said, as we continued chatting about our plans for the week ahead.

“A little help here?” the voice called out again.

And then, “Mama?”

Finally, taking the hint, I joined my 4-year old throne-side.

“Um, I had a little accident, Mama… sorry.”

I looked down and saw his Super Mario briefs lying on the floor—looking remarkably accident-free.

“No problem, Sweetie,” I said, scrunching a handful of toilet paper into my palm so I could help him.

“You know what, Mama? I saved Lego bag number 3 so you could help me tonight since Papa already got to help me… and tomorrow, you can give me a bath because it’s gonna be Mother’s Day and usually Papa does that… so tomorrow will be special.”

I smiled at his concept of Mother’s Day. As I wiped him, he continued to chirp away, using a tone most women reserve for the nail salon. “And I’m working on a secret art project but I can’t tell you about it,” he said, “because it’s a surprise and…”

I thought back to earlier in the day and my older son’s sad eyes when he heard that Mama wouldn’t be at his baseball game. My husband explained that I was going to take the afternoon off and go shopping, as an early Mother’s Day present. But one look at that face and I changed my plans.

“I’ll join you at the park,” I’d told him.

As it turned out, I never had to leave. En route to the park, his tummy started hurting. With vomit an imminent possibility, my husband quickly drove him home to be under the watchful eye of Mama.

I couldn’t help laughing as I looked around. And that night as I snuggled on the couch with my boys and we watched the opening scenes of E.T. together, a favorite movie from my own childhood, I thought how lucky I am to have them.

When Mateo climbed out of bed long after he should have already been asleep because he was scared and wanted a hug, I thought how wonderful it is to be needed and loved and entertained by these little boys every day of the year.

This is motherhood. And though it can be exhausting and frustrating, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Whether you’re in a couple or living the single life, Valentine’s Day rarely lives up to the hype. But the next time you’re feeling bad, just remember it could be worse: you could be spending your romantic weekend with two kids under the age of five. Here’s a play by play of our holiday weekend…

5 pm – Finally packed and leaving for Atlanta! So excited.

5:15 pm – Oh, crap. Stuck in traffic. Just realized we left both boys’ winter coats at home.

2:20 pm – Hubby sprints through Olympic Park with five year old who’s doing the pee-pee dance.

2:45 pm – Two year old happily babbling about the Coca Cola Polar Bear that he can’t wait to meet inside.

2:57 pm – Two year old screaming. Totally freaked out by bear.

3:10 pm – Race through exhibit on History of Coke to try to catch up with family.

3:15 pm – Discover they exited at the beginning because two year old still crying about polar bear. Resident Coke “happy patrol” cheers him up by blowing bubbles and telling him there will soon be games to play.

3:28 pm – Where are the damn games??

3:35 pm – Ooh! 4D Movie. This is going to be great. Kids will love it!

10:14 pm – We’ve moved our party to the bathroom, where pizza is making an encore appearance.

10:22 pm – Two year old seems totally fine. Change his clothes and get him back into bed. Now, we can finally get some rest.

2:44 am – THUD!!

2:45 am – ??!!!

2:47 am – Lift still-sleeping five year old back up from the floor.

8:30 am – Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all! Kids predictably underwhelmed by cheapo Valentines I chose for them but seem to like the M & Ms. Hubby doesn’t “get my humor,” disturbed by my card choice for him. This day’s off to a good start…

And with tantrums, more sprints to the bathroom, and wrong turns on the way: I’ll be glad when we finally arrive in Charlotte, 11 hours later. While en route, Hubby and I will reminisce about all of our favorite moments in our romantic history. And wouldn’t you know it, this turns out to be the sweetest valentine of all.

Sometimes the things you look forward to the most don’t turn out exactly as planned… That was today’s lesson, as we stood shoulder to shoulder with a crowd outside of Charlotte’s Regal Park Terrace cinema, waiting for a fifty year old time capsule to be cracked open.

To my surprise, I felt more like a Charlottean than ever before as sixties music filled the air and people browsed through a display of artifacts from the era — a local phone book from the ’50s, a vintage Battleship game, an air raid protocol poster, old records, a retro TV, a viewmaster, and more.

We all wondered what would be inside this box buried in front of the theater the same year The Beatles came to America, during the height of the Civil Rights movement and as the Vietnam War raged on.

Some people around us reminisced about when the movie theater first opened or spending Saturday mornings there as kids in the ’60s and ’70s. Others remembered an even earlier time when this land had simply been an empty lot, before the Park Road Shopping Center’s arrival in the late ’50s — when it became the first outdoor shopping center of its kind in Charlotte and the largest in the region spanning from DC to Atlanta.

It didn’t matter that we are not orignally from Charlotte. My husband and I, like so many residents, are transplants from other places far away. Having lived in Charlotte for almost eight years now, we have our local memories too: celebrating a belated St. Patrick’s Day over a pint of Guiness at Sir Ed’s days after the birth of our first son; family dinners at The Flying Biscuit; watching the kids test the goods at Toys & Co.; hearing my young sons squeal “cookie, cookie” as we dash into Harris Teeter for some groceries; listening to community members read Dr. Seuss books at Park Road Books; and of course seeing great independent movies on those too rare date nights at the Regal Park Terrace.

Suddenly, today, I realized that we really have become Charlotteans. Just by going about our everyday lives we’ve set down roots in this place. We are a part of this city and just like everyone around us — the young and the not-so-young — we hoped that we would discover some missing piece, some clue from our collective past when the time capsule would be opened.

And what did they find inside the sludgy, muddy interior? Pieces of decayed newspaper, a mysterious reel of film, the binding from a now disintegrated notebook, and a key to the city.

Some people were disappointed. They called the event a “bust.” But I don’t see it that way.

The half hour before the ceremony was magic for me: chatting with the people around us, sharing stories about the past and the present. We hugged our kids, admired the vintage car parked next to us, and mouthed the words to classic songs.

The joy for me was in participating in this scene — experiencing a strong sense of community, even though we were mostly surrounded by strangers. The anticipation before the opening and the chance to revisit the past collectively were a unique gift. I realize now that it really didn’t matter what was in the box.

Ultimately, it’s a shared vision — imagining possibilities and commemorating our past — that binds us together. It gives us a sense of belonging. It’s the true key to the city.

Last month my husband issued a surprising challenge: could we go one week without using the dishwasher? He was fed up with finding bits of tomato sauce clinging to an occasional dish and wayward Fruit Loops spooning with spoons — not to mention sick of constantly empyting water-logged tupperware from the upper rack. He maintained that with handwashing we’d actually have cleaner dishes in the same amount of time or less.

He’d come up with this theory that the dishwasher is actually the ultimate procrastinating machine, tempting us with its bubbly mantra: “why wash now what you can rinse and stack for later?” Though it poses as a time-saving device, he argued that the time it takes to empty the dishwasher and recheck the dishes actually make it a time drain.

I begrudgingly decided to play along but only after the terms were fixed: he would handle all of the dinner plates, pots, pans, etc. I’d take care of the rest of the day’s dishes.

After he posted it on Facebook, something interesting started happening. We began receiving phone calls and emails from worried family members.

“Are you crazy?”… “Do you need a new dishwasher?”…

“Are you being forced to wash all of the dishes by hand (while barefoot in the kitchen)?”

“Have you tried using a rinse aid?”…

“No, really, Sis: Do we need to take up a collection to get you a new dishwasher?”

I couldn’t believe what a stir it had caused! But I was even more surprised by what happened to our kitchen and to me that week:

1.) We never had any dishes piling up in the sink.

2.) We never ran out of silverware.

3.) We became noticibly more frugal in our use of water glasses.

4.) I actually felt happier — washing the dishes after every meal was sort of… well, cleansing. I had an odd feeling of productivity that carried into other tasks around the home and even in my professional work. (Save us all.. ME — a Domestic Goddess?!)

5.) I had the feeling that my husband and I were both sharing the burden of housework.

6.) The difference in time, if there was any, was negligible. It was just spread out throughout the day rather than in one grand emptying/rewashing ceremony.

7.) I learned the true secret to a happy marriage: while it’s ok to loudly critique the dishwasher’s inability to get all of the gunk off, a little more tact is required when assessing your husband’s handiwork.

The following Monday morning I noticed my husband — out of years of habit — load his coffee mug in the dishwasher. I didn’t say anything. After all, the competition was officially over.

But that didn’t stop me from feeling a little guilty later on when I scooped up the rest of the breakfast dishes from the sink and plopped them into the “procrastinator.” I needed some sink space for the lunch plates!

Somehow the magic was gone… but while it lasted, it was grand!

I guess my husband was right. Quelle surprise! (And by the way, so was my mother: I started using a new dishwasher detergent with a rinse aid and those dishes are sparkling again — even if they do sit for a while in the machine.)

There’s one thing I know for sure: No freaking way my sweet-talking hubby can convince me to take the same challenge with our washing machine.